A Soul Which Forsakes Vision



A Soul Which Forsakes Vision 

I spin in infliction upon my barren stretch of the smitten lands that once held life with strength. But I have become beaten, my breath no longer an apron to catch the stains of my soul.

I have begun the end of the beginning, I have been bitten. The vampire phantom of the broken has come for my salvation. Its palate distinguished for this exact occasion, surely my crimson blood shall be forgiven. 

Blood thirsty have I become in my wake of passive caution in the ingestion of toxins. Slay me of my burdens, strain me of tension, bring me addiction to the poisoning of my vision.

Leave me blackened as one would be in the annihilation of the sun. Allow me the appeasement of death from the inhalation of the deceased.

As if caught in disease of the maddened. Strip me of my muscles of the mental and bring madness to my beacon. I am now up for auction, the highest bidder take my canon.

Fire me from your tongue and let me do your bidding. I have been swallowed by the hollow and am as cold as the lungs of Norseman. But I carry no blade for my protection as I am driven in the purchase of an omen.

 I am now merely an organ, and instrument to filter the wishes of another. No options align for me, I am an orphan of my own doing.

Stripped of passion, a body of no reason. Ripen, will I not, as I rot in the fallen of this vast titan. My lips thicken in the swollen submission of silence. I threaten with no resistance, I reek in the sulking of my existence.

I am barren in my wishes, my prayers, I fall from my mountains. My feet bear no traction, my soul stands at the toll, paying for my trodden Trojan of life.

Defiled have I allowed myself, damnification is what I inhale. I once held grandeur of Eden, but have brought that to fiction.

Forsaken I speak, as I lust in the fusion of the heathens. Empty, hardened, a fission of foreign motion. A blur of pessimism has risen, a sail of no direction but the disillusionment of my pitied eruption.

I collapsed among my own dilation of discipline as I dissected my dysfunction. But became contorted my distortion of what is to be perfection.

What expression is left but that of expulsion of my own exemption. To pry me from any hope of extraction, give me famine. For that is what I deserve in this ill adaptation as I have summoned in the abomination of the vulgar.

I pray for clarification, but I fear I am to far gone for the filtration of my decisions.
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Thank you for reading, I hope it thrilled your soul. What was your take on this piece, did anything feel as if it were you? (Don't give up your vision, your soul, your dreams for anything)

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